Driving into work on Monday morning, the sense is one of wonder at where the weekend went. Not so long ago – my knackered brain thinks – it was Friday afternoon, and thoughts of a restful weekend filled my mind but here, tottering on the verge of a return to work, the memory of the weekend already seems like a blur. Looking back, the two things that stand out are a cringe worthy gaffe, one occasioned by a particularly blatant reading of a certain situation on my part, and a head scratching conversation with S.
Later this week, the team at work has an away day pencilled in, one which it must be said the vast majority of us are not overly keen on. I suspect our collective irritation has not been helped by the instruction to come with two objects that symbolise the team for us – one for how it has been and one for how we would like it to be in the future. All sort of Zen-ish, feely, metaphorical stuff, but not being one for exercising my brain unduly over the weekend, I find myself fretting over what to take by the time Monday rolls in. One part of me wants to take a rotten banana in as my now object, given how dysfunctional I feel the team is at the moment. In the end I decide to leave the decision for another day, opting to buy a golf ball as my future object; in my mind a sphere and its surface to volume ratio is the closest thing to an efficient object I can grab at short notice.
By the time night comes around, that sense of disquiet has eased off slightly; an extended conversation with Sister #1 helps. Later as I lie in bed mulling over the events of the day and my conversation with S, what ifs and maybes loop continuously through my mind, not helped by the fact that the conversation with S goes far better than I could have hoped for, historical antecedents notwithstanding. Sometime between sheep number 4,597 and infinity, I fall asleep to a mercifully dreamless sleep.
I choose to walk into work on Tuesday, the nip in the day notwithstanding. Invigorated by the fresh air – or perhaps the copious amounts of green tea I down – I’m down to inbox zero by 10am. After that it’s a meeting with a service provider keen to sell some new-fangled technology to the team. That meeting, which ends just after lunch, goes like a breeze; the usefulness of the tech being pretty much self-evident for the application we require it for.
After lunch I am half way through some paper work when I get an email from the gaffer. It transpires that I have been volunteered for a trip offshore the next day; I am assured it will be a quick night’s trip only, and that a requirement for a slightly above average materials knowledge is the reason why I have been volunteered. The rest of the day passes quickly – briefings to come up to speed on the scope of the trip, check-in details and a quick chat with the chaps more familiar with the specifics of the situation. I finally manage to extricate myself from the mad house at 5.45pm, by which time I am rueing my decision to not drive into work. The silver lining is that the team away day which I was worrying about is canned, ostensibly to allow us focus on the pressing issues at hand.
At home, I debate the merits of driving the next day to the airport, decide it is safest to call a cab instead – traffic on the way to the airport in the morning can be a nightmare – and get it all set up with the City’s taxi rank. Such is my intense focus that is only at 11pm, in the middle of my night time catch up with B that I realise my passport is still down in London.
I wake up just before my alarm, set for 5.30am, goes off. Last night’s dishes are the first order of business. I battle a dense layer of charred rice for the better part of fifteen minutes before a semblance of cleanliness comes to my pot. I rush through my washing up, final checks to confirm I have packed all I need and a response to my email from last night about my passport. From the looks of it, I will need a dispensation to fly – better than nothing I guess. I drop my old passport in my bag just in case.
I hop into my taxi, traffic is not light, but it does move on at a fairly reasonable clip. The driver and I pass the time in light conversation, beginning with the usual suspects – where I am originally from, how long I have been in the country for, how long I’m booked to be offshore for, where I work and such. When I mention I’m due out for a day only, he laughs, unlikely for this time of the year he adds. I agree, not forgetting my luck with the weather (only once on my previous seven trips offshore have I returned as planned, no thanks to the weather.) .
The conversation moves on to other subjects as we head down Great Northern road towards the notorious Haudagain Roundabout. Falling oil prices, North Sea lifting costs per barrel and the potential impact on business in the city also get discussed as we inch along towards the airport. In between, I fire off an email to the gaffer, alerting him to the situation with my passport.
By the time we arrive the wheels have started churning, a flurry of emails ends in my getting a dispensation to fly with a copy of my passport. There is still time for Google Drive to nearly prove my Achilles heel. Having shared a copy of my passport with the lady at the check-in desk via Google Drive, it turns out she can only view it with a goggle account. In the end I have to log on to her machine, download a copy and then send it off to her office printer before I get checked in. Thankfully I am at the end of the queue and don’t hold anyone up. On this evidence, a return to Dropbox as my default cloud storage is required.
I arrive offshore at just past 11.30am, listen to the site induction, get introduced to the high and mighty and hop off to my lodgings. The agreement is for us all to have a huddle after lunch to kick off the program of activities which has dragged me offshore this time. The meeting goes well; short, quick and frank, after which I get asked to provide an ‘expert’ opinion on the subject at hand. I offer as much information as I have and then leave the rest of the team to it. I spend the rest of the evening catching up with the offshore team, given it’s my first time out here.
The plan is to have a wash up meeting with the work party to discuss findings and then break up to prepare for the return trip. Just after the briefing, I hear I’ll have to spend an additional day. It is for a good cause though as the chap who’ll be taking ‘my’ seat has a holiday lined up.
Out here boot covers, ostensibly to ensure dirty boots don’t get worn within the accommodation modules, are the rage and I end up running through quite a few as I walk about the plant. In between, I get more conversation time with the various supervisors, running over data collection for a different project I have on the horizon. The conversations about me that I over hear are good, helped perhaps by the fact that I’ve worked with a couple of the guys on a different platform before; my we’re all in it together spiel also helps I reckon. The chopper eve mind set kicks in at some stage – all I can think about is home.
Overnight it feels like the platform is rocking a lot more than I have grown accustomed to. The next morning, my suspicions are confirmed when the Planner who seat next to the desk I have commandeered shows me the weather report, with wind speeds in excess of 60 knots. Outside the wind is howling, and the waves at the cellar deck crash with increasing regularity.
We still go through the motions – bags dragged up to the admin office, checked in and safety brief watched – even though it is clear there’ll be no flight given the conditions. I spend the time at the desk catching up on email. The disillusionment is palpable. A couple of the guys are due off on Monday, the potential impacts of my not getting off on schedule are not something they want to consider.
Morning brings bitter sweet news – the weather has improved enough for a flight to be put on, even though it’s a shared one The slightly bitter news is that a medivac situation is the priority.
We check in, watch the safety brief again,and head back to the offices to get the day started. This time, remembering that I’ve got the Kindle Cloud Reader set up on my portable Chrome version, I fire up John le Carré A Delicate Truth. It’s a good, if cultured read – far more nuanced than the swash buckling Nick Carter/ James Bond-esque sorts I gobbled up growing up. I enjoy it so much that I am up till 11.30pm reading. In between I have lunch – a dubious mix of chips, roast turkey and chili beans; and then dinner – more of the same topped up with a plum and apricot flapjack tart with custard that tastes heavenly.
My on-off flight out is back on, apparently. When the heli-admin tells me that, I tell her I’ll believe when I see the helicopter coming in. She laughs. Far more seriously my paltry five day stint is far less critical than a number of people who are nudging the three week mark.
We go through the routine again, this time getting interrupted as we watch the helicopter safety brief by a general platform alarm. We go the full hog – from mustering to getting counted off and then wait whilst the OIM speaks over the tannoy to give us information. About twenty minutes later, we’re stood down and allowed to return to our various endeavours.
Sometime after 11am, the chug of the in bound helicopter rises to a din as it hovers above. We – the three of us joining this flight – drag our bags upstairs and get led into the helicopter for the ninety minute flight back to the ‘Deen. Thankfully, sleep takes over after a few minutes, the rhythm of the rotor blades and the bland monotony of the never ending water all around lulling me to sleep.
Thankfully, the sun is out in Aberdeen when we arrive, small mercies given that out here, summer (and sunshine) lasts for two days only.